


Meander past the dawn

by Terfle



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 1998)
Genre: Curiosity, Gen, Intrigue, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 09:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12478608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terfle/pseuds/Terfle
Summary: Miss Hardbroom is an intrigue to all. Conversation ensues





	Meander past the dawn

Dawn trembled over the horizon, weakly shining over the tops of the trees and filtering through the tallest room in the building, the deputy head’s bedroom. Miss Hardbroom almost always awoke at the crack of dawn. If she had slept the night before, that is. This morning she shook herself awake and stretched like a cat. Her own cat Morgana was just coming in from the night. Jumping through the window, she yawned lazily, lapped at the water in her dish and settled down slowly for a nap.

Far down below, Imogen Drill had just finished an early morning run in the forest and was arriving back at the Academy. A pile of letters lay on the table in the hall and she picked them up, meaning to deliver them to everyone.

She took the letters to each colleague’s rooms and slipped them under the doors. Miss Bat in the basement snored in a soft wheezy whisper. Miss Cackle was a silent sleeper near her office. Miss Crochet snuffled in the room opposite Imogen’s. Miss Hardbroom’s was the furthest, up a flight of steps leading to the tallest tower in the Academy. Of course it would be.

Lightly scampering up the stairs, she crept up to the door, which was open a crack and bent down to push the letter underneath. Hearing Morgana’s meowing from inside, she knew HB was up. Soft murmuring was heard in response, Imogen stopped to listen. Taking the chance, she peered through the gap to observe a morning Miss Hardbroom, something she reckoned almost nobody would have seen.

She was stroking Morgana tenderly, ticking her under the chin and scratching behind her ears. Morgana was purring delightedly and her tail whipped back and forth as she followed her mistresses teasing fingers, licking them with affection and resting her head against her hand. Constance smiled like a mother to her baby and Miss Drill was suddenly unnerved by the uncommon expression. She had only seen the woman give a slight twitch of the lips on occasion. She didn’t expect a smile from her to be so genuine, lighting up the stern face, radiant in the morning light.

As was her hair, Imogen noticed. Always twisted up during the day, Constance freed it at night and the sun streaming through the room burnished it into a silken stream. Imogen was transfixed by the beautiful hair banished into a bun at all times during the daylight hours. Hair like that should be a pride and joy but Miss Hardbroom’s strict upbringing wasn’t one to acknowledge that.

Leaving Morgana be, she stood up and started preparing for the day. With one swift move, she pulled her pyjama top over her head and Imogen realised she needed to leave. But something caught her eye. Set in the ivory skin of her back were faint marks. Imogen looked hard but couldn’t see what they were exactly.

Imogen knew that she had seen too much. She crept away quietly from the door and down the stairs just as Morgana started meowing, sensing her presence.

The staffroom was humming with morning activity. Miss Bat was composing in her cupboard while Miss Cackle frowned over a few papers over her morning toasted cheese.

Miss Hardbroom swept in and started organising the day. Impatiently waiting for Miss Bat to come out of the cupboard with pencils in her hair, she ignored the Mongolian humming and stated the obvious.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be supervising the girls for breakfast?’ she asked the hapless teacher. Davina dropped her conductor’s baton in realisation that she should indeed be doing that. HB rolled her eyes after Miss Bat rushed down to oversee the students.

‘Are you sure you don’t need a rota written out and stuck to the door Headmistress?’

Amelia looked up from the cheese strings she was twirling around her finger. ‘No no HB, no need for that. I’m sure the girls will be fine downstairs, it won’t harm them for her to be late.’

Miss Hardbroom privately thought that semolina would be flying off the walls by now, to the backdrop of Lavinia Crochet’s organ bashing in the assembly hall that was currently music of the month.

Miss Drill read her mind and grinned. ‘I’m sure the kitchen won’t be cooking semolina for a while.’ HB rolled her eyes in acknowledgement.

Miss Cackle didn’t notice. She was too busy rooting around in the messy pile of papers to find the day’s work without staining them with cheese grease. Unsuccessfully. HB sighed and conjured up a bowl of water and a cloth. Another day had started in Cackle’s Academy.

Imogen couldn’t get the image of the marked skin out of her mind. She sat in the staffroom at midday break and pondered. Miss Cackle noticed and sat down next to her.

‘Penny for them?’

Imogen glanced at the Headmistress and wondered what to tell her. It could be nothing. She might be reprimanded for spying on a teacher. Maybe Miss Cackle already knew. Perhaps Miss Hardbroom would materialise out of thin air at an inconvenient time. She tended to do that.

‘Something of a sensitive nature, hmm?’

Imogen nodded. She reckoned Miss Cackle might know something about it.

‘This morning, I went for a run and when I came back, I found a pile of letters. So I delivered them to each teacher.’

Amelia Cackle nodded. ‘Thank you for that by the way, meant to mention it.’

‘Well I went up to Miss Hardbroom’s room and slipped the letter under the door and the door was open a little...’

She looked at the Headmistress and was encouraged by the nod.

‘So I looked in and she was talking to her cat.’

‘Heard anything interesting?’

‘Well, no. It was nothing like that.’ Miss Drill felt a flush rising up to her face. It was embarrassing being caught out for voyeurism.

‘Well I noticed something strange. She had these strange marks on her skin.’

‘What kind of marks?’

‘Well, it looked like...’ She thought about it for a minute. ‘Scars. But I couldn’t see properly. On her back.’

Amelia ruminated on the image.

‘You just happened to see those?’ she asked, her chin resting on steepled fingers. Imogen wished the ground could swallow her up at this point. She was quite sure Miss Cackle was suppressing a smile. It sounded so perverted, to be spying on a practically nude teacher. She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose, something that sometimes focused her. She kept her voice low.

‘She was getting undressed. That’s how I saw. It wasn’t on purpose.’

‘I see.’

‘I just can’t get the image out of my mind. I was wondering if you knew anything about it.’

‘I can’t say I do.’ The teasing tone had disappeared and Amelia looked apprehensive. ‘I’ve never heard of this. Mind you, I’ve never had reason to see that much of her.’ They both knew that pretty much nobody had seen anything much of Miss Hardbroom. The woman was a bit of a mystery to everyone.

‘I just can’t help being inquisitive. How much do you know about her?’ Imogen burst out, seemingly unable to control her curiosity.

‘Well I know the basic things. Where she studied, what family she came from etc. You don’t need much more than a track record and teaching credentials for a job. Further than that, I know little further. We treat each other with professionalism.’

Imogen suspected that wasn’t quite true. She had a feeling that Amelia Cackle knew more than she was letting on.

‘What of her family?’

 ‘A rather magical mishmash. Highly talented, but full of steps and halves everywhere. Extended and reconstituted.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Lots of great aunts and uncles and such-like. I vaguely remember a half sister of hers. Very glamorous. Married a foreign wizard.’

Imogen tried to imagine a glamorous half sister and eventually came up with an image of Morticia Addams. Was there room in that kind of a family for an exotic beauty?

‘Was she older or younger? The sister?’ she enquired casually.

Amelia thought for a minute.

‘I’m quite sure she is the older of the two. She’s the only person that writes to Constance as far as I know. They seem to be close.’

Imogen realised that the answer was in her hand this morning. She never gave it much thought but Miss Hardbroom did get a letter every month so that must be who it was from. She stored that piece of information to mull on later. Now was her chance to press for more information.

She thought up a number of questions, many of which seemed inappropriate to ask. HB was an intensely private person. But her source of information was in a curiously divulging mood. Perhaps today’s cheese on toast was exceptionally tasty. It had been but that wasn’t it. Amelia Cackle was doing some thinking herself. She had a suspicion but kept it to herself. Most things were just a theory with her deputy head.

‘How does she get all of that hair up every day?’

‘She likes to do some things without magic’ Amelia informed her with a smile. ‘I have a theory that she keeps grounded by attending to herself as an average person does.’

‘That’s a lot of hair to attend to. Must take some time.’

‘Even HB needs some time to herself. Perhaps tending to her hair is a form of centring her thoughts.’

That seemed to make sense.

 ‘I suppose that makes sense. She looks the same every day. It’s like she wakes up every morning with a fresh face of makeup’ mused Imogen. ‘How does she have the time?’

Miss Cackle looked at her over her glasses.

‘Constance doesn’t wear makeup’ she corrected.

‘So why are her lips always the same colour? A curious burgundy shade.’

Amelia sipped from her cup.

‘How much do you know about witches, Imogen?’

‘Well, enough, working here.’

‘Do you know about the marking of a witch?’

Miss Drill taken aback. ‘Witches have markings?’

‘You should know that a witch harbours a physicality to show she is such. All witches have one. The more powerful a witch you are, the more concentrated the mark is. I have a mole on my wrist, see.’ She pushed up her sleeve and displayed it. It was in fact two particularly large moles joined together in a bow shape. ‘Certainly unusual’ observed Imogen.

‘Much of the time, this is a kind of mark, a mole or a birthmark. For many others, it is an unusual coloured lock of hair.’

Imogen could recall a few witches she had seen at school events with odd coloured bits in their hair. She had simply thought it was a fashion statement. She had forgotten to not underestimate the importance of any little detail in the magical world.

‘Constance is no ordinary witch. She has exceptional powers. Her skin is marked in a different way, in the staining of her lips.’

‘That’s a measure of her magic?’ Imogen was astounded.

‘Indeed it is. She was born with it and honed it to perfection over the years. It is possible she has a birthmark somewhere as well but there is sufficient evidence on her face to tell me how high a calibre of witch she is.’

Unaware of her colleague’s interference, Miss Hardbroom continued with her week, with Swiss clock efficiency and precise manner as always.

What went on in her head, nobody knew. She didn’t always know. Her remembrance of her night time wanderings were wisps of cambric tucked away in the corners. Sometimes they would work loose and flutter to the front of her thoughts, occasionally in the most inconvenient moments. So good was she in hiding it, none of the students ever noticed when she stared at the steam rising from her cauldron for a few seconds too long, seeing something they couldn’t in those swirls. She always snapped back to attention but for the rest of the lesson it would linger to the back of her mind, like the remains of a headache. Just a dull ache which resurfaced later at night, which drove her to keep awake and wander out of the building into the cold night air and stare into the darkness, seeing shapes and characters play out thoughts and fantasies in the murky wasteland of her past. Her mind was an inexhaustible diary that flipped to pages ranging from the mundane to the most private.

 


End file.
